My Tango With Barbara Strozzi (15 page)

‘Daumier!’ said Brian, ‘there’s nobody like him. His Quixote paintings are his best work. There’s an oil sketch in a book I have at home, Quixote and Sancho on Rosinante and Dapple – it’s nothing but light and shadow. The gridwork Daumier used for transferring
his sketches is clearly visible, and the Don and Rosinante are leaning through it as if moving into the fourth dimension. It’s absolutely a metaphysical painting. We’ll visit his tomb when we go to Père Lachaise. And while we’re there you can also put flowers in Victor Noir’s hat and rub his boots and crotch for luck.’

‘Who’s Victor Noir?’

‘He was a young journalist shot in 1870 by Pierre Bonaparte. The story (unauthenticated) is that he was caught with Bonaparte’s wife.’

‘Why would I rub his boots and his crotch for luck?’

‘Thousands do – you’ll see when we’re at his tomb.’

The next day after lunch at a brasserie we took the Metro to Père Lachaise and walked down the Boulevard Ménilmontant to the entrance where Brian bought a map of the cemetery and I bought a yellow rose.

‘Have you got someone in mind for that?’ he said.

‘I don’t know yet.’

The morning had been sunny but the sky had become grey and overcast; an air of gentle melancholy pervaded the place and I found it very comfortable.

‘“He that dies this year is quit for the next,”’ quoted Brian. ‘Everyone here is a fully paid-up mortal. They died peacefully or violently, publicly or privately, famously or obscurely, and here they lie, each with a name and number on the map. But not all who died here have names and numbers: for some there’s only a wall, the Mur des Fédérés: hundreds of members of the Paris Commune were stood up against it in 1871 and
shot in batches. I read in
Frommer’s
that a handful survived and lived in the vaults like wild animals for years. They’d come out at night to forage for food in Paris.
Frommer’s
doesn’t say what happened to their bodies when they died.’

‘They must be ghosts now,’ I said, ‘and probably they’re known by name to the other ghosts: Héloïse and Abelard,’ I read, ‘Chopin, Jane Avril but no Toulouse-Lautrec. Here’s Daumier next to Corot at
vingt-quatrième
’.

‘Jim Morrison is here too,’ said Brian. ‘He pulls the most visitors.’

‘He’s probably the life of the party after midnight.’

‘More like
all
night; I’m sure they rock around the clock. Look at the names on the map – it’s a pretty wild crowd here.’

We made our way up Avenue Saint-Morys, did a right, and there was the flat grey slab that said:

DAUMIER
Honoré Victorin
N. Marseilles Fevrier 26 1808
M. Valmondois Fevrier 10 1879

Madame DAUMIER
Née Marie Alexandrine
DASSY
N. Paris Fevrier 2 1822
M. Paris Janvier 11 1895

‘Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,’
said Brian.
‘Tout va bien?’
He brushed off the slab with his hand and took a notebook from his pocket. He wrote in it, tore off the page, put it on the tomb and weighted it with a pebble. ‘Thank you note,’ he said.
À bientôt’
, he said to the Daumiers as we left. ‘Victor Noir next.’

We turned right on to Avenue Transversale No. 1, took a left into Avenue Greffulhe, and there was Victor flat on his back with a bullet hole in his chest and a bulge in his trousers. ‘Died with a hard-on,’ said Brian. ‘Tough one, Vic’. To me he said, ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone with him?’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I would.’ Brian withdrew and I stood looking down at the life-size bronze figure. It was a little startling at first, as if he had been shot only a moment ago. His coat and jacket were opened, his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing the bullet-hole, his trousers had been loosened, and his crotch and boots were well burnished by the hands of female visitors. His top hat lay by his right side with roses and cards in it. There was a bouquet by his left hand. I kissed my yellow rose and put it in his hat. I rubbed his erection and his boot, said, ‘Anything you can do, Victor,’ blew him a kiss and joined Brian.

‘Père Lachaise is a good pick-up place,’ he said. ‘You can find whatever kind of woman you’re looking for here.’

‘Live ones?’

‘Very.’

‘Have you picked up any?’

‘Not lately. Is there anyone else here you’d like to drop in on?’

I thought of Jane Avril with her long face and her high-kicking leg in the Lautrec poster but I decided to keep that image in my mind rather than her tomb so we headed back to the Boulevard Ménilmontant. The cemetery was full of trees and shadows. I recognised the yew and the rowan, not the others. The sun came out and the monuments went pale.

We had dinner at Les Deux Magots and took an evening stroll through the Latin Quarter before going back to the hotel. This was our last evening in Paris. We’d made love on the first couple of nights but not since. ‘One has the feeling that the thrill is gone,’ said Brian.

‘Protestant Work Ethic,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel right when life is easy.’

We checked out the next morning. We never did go up the Eiffel Tower.

The Coroner’s Inquest came up and Barbara – I can’t keep calling her Bertha/Barbara – was there. What can I say? My heart skipped a beat when I saw her. She gave me a really sweet look and said, ‘Hi, Phil. How’s it going?’

‘Pages are happening,’ I said. ‘How’s it with you?’

‘You know – same old eyeballs. You’ve got a new novel going! I’m really glad to hear that.’

‘Still with Brian?’

‘No, actually.’

At this point there were three knocks and the Coroner’s Officer said, ‘Rise, please, to Her Majesty’s Coroner.’ We rose as the Coroner came in. ‘Oyez, oyez, oyez,’ said the Coroner’s Officer as the Coroner passed to the bench, ‘all manner of persons who have anything to do at this court before the Queen’s Coroner touching upon the death of Troy Hector Wallis draw near and give your attendance. Pray be seated.’

The Coroner’s Court in Fulham is shaped like a large telephone box, and my thoughts rose up vertically both inside and outside of it. The clear grey light that came in through the windows was cool and sceptical. Possibly it had heard too many lies to take anything for granted. Ten Bibles in the jury box, two more by the witness box. There was a poor box by the door. Behind the Coroner the royal arms said DIEU ET MON DROIT.

As all the persons having anything to do etc. drew near and gave their attendance we were sworn in and testified that everything had happened the way it had happened. Then the Coroner returned a verdict of accidental death, Bob was our uncle, and there we were out on the street blinking in the sunlight.

Barbara and I were looking at each other as if our mouths had forgotten how to form words. Eventually we both spoke at the same time: ‘Maybe …’ was our joint utterance.

‘You first,’ said Barbara.

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘we could have dinner one evening?’

‘That’s what I was going to say.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’m going from here to Paddington to get a train for Exeter. My parents and I have never been very close but my father is in hospital for heart surgery and I told my mother I’d be there. If all goes well I’ll probably be back in a week. Can we not talk on the phone while I’m away and can I walk around in your head?’

‘Please walk on in and set right down and make yourself at home,’ I said.

We took the Underground together and at the station we kissed goodbye but it was definitely a hello kiss. When I got home I sat down at the word machine and words began appearing on the screen as if my story were heading for someplace good. I poured myself a large Laphroaig, said, ‘Here’s luck!’ and let my fingers dance over the keys for a good three hours. I was enjoying myself; I particularly liked the part where we watched
The Rainmaker
video and I was still smiling about it when I got into bed.

True to her word, Barbara came and walked around in my head. She seemed totally comfortable in herself and with me. ‘It’s nice to be here,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s pretty much my favourite place. Being with Brian just wasn’t right for me. I’ve given us a lot of thought, and I think what you and I have between us is something we’ll never find again with anyone else. Do you agree?’

‘Emphatically.’

‘I know it won’t be easy. It used to bother me a lot that you write boring but I think I can handle that now. I mean, it’s no worse than watching football on TV all the time or losing the housekeeping playing poker.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I said, ‘but it could be that I won’t always write boring.’

‘Whatever,’ said Barbara. ‘I just want you to know I’m in this for the long haul.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘When I went to St James’s Clerkenwell for that tango lesson I could feel that Barbara Strozzi was with me, and when I saw your face, sad and beautiful like her music, I knew that you’d be with me from then on. She’s with both of us now, still sad, still wanting someone to know her needs and bear the burden of her sorrow.’

‘Still wanting so long after her death?’

‘I don’t think the wanting ever stops.’

‘Well, we can take her along with us, can’t we?’

‘All the way, Barb.’

‘That’s settled then. How are things with you in general?’

‘Work’s been going well,’ I said. ‘I’ll have some pages to show you when you get back.’

There was a little pause at her end, then she said, ‘I look forward to reading them. I’ll say goodnight now.’ She kissed me and left and I drifted off to sleep smiling.

Barbara showed up in my head every night while she was in Exeter. No heavy schmoozing – we just talked about all kinds of things from hair styles to dishwashers. She rang me up a week after she’d left to tell me that her father had come safely through the operation and she’d be coming home in two days. ‘I’ll call again to let you know what train I’ll be on,’ she said.

She arrived on a Tuesday evening. I met her off the train and we went to a little French restaurant in the North End Road. ‘My last French restaurant was Les Deux Magots,’ she said.

‘How
was
Paris?’

‘It wasn’t where I wanted to be.’

She stayed at my place that night and the next day we moved her in after work. I’d given up my classes, so my time was my own. I had enough in the bank to get me through six months and now with her salary added to it we could last maybe a year without any new income. I thought I had a pretty good chance of finishing
My Tango with Barbara Strozzi
and getting an advance by then. The pages were marching right along; I was doing my chapters in alternate first-person narration so of course I had to imagine Barbara’s part of it. When I’d got to p 92, which felt like somewhere past halfway, I was ready to show her what I’d done so far.

After dinner one evening I put the ms in her hands; we got to the HMS
Victory
part and as she reached the end of p 92 she said, ‘I have good feelings about this. Do you know how it’s going to end?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘Hey,’ said Barbara, ‘it didn’t bore me at all! You think this might be a turning point?’

‘You never know.’

She went to the fridge and came back with a bottle of Moët & Chandon. I opened it and poured and we raised our glasses.

‘You know, Phil,’ said Barbara, ‘I don’t believe there’s anyone who could know my needs and bear the burden of my sorrow the way you do.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, ‘and I feel the same about you.’

‘Here’s to Barbara Strozzi,’ said Barbara, and we clinked.

‘And Neptune and Pluto and all those other planets who have been active on our behalf,’ I said.

‘And us,’ said Barbara.

‘And us,’ said I.

Catriona Mundle was the astrologer not only for the people in this story but also for me. Her horoscopes consistently offered useful insights as I worked.

Rob Warren of the Greenwich Observatory gave me astronomical guidance.

Amanda Peiro, whom I had consulted about tango in a previous novel, referred me to her father, Teddy Peiro, who sent me tango material and put me on to Paul Lange and Michiko Ukazaki and their tango classes at St James’s Church, Clerkenwell. Paul and Michiko also helped me with a private session at their house; Christine Denniston’s CD-ROM,
Dancing Tango
, was my source for most of the tango history in the text; the three
Argentine Tango
CD-ROMs with Christy Cote and George Garcia which Phil used were from The Tango Catalogue (US); Helena of totaltango very carefully selected tango recordings for me which had the authentic sound I wanted to hear.

Lara Hoffenberg of the University of Cape Town generously provided extensive information about South Africa and patiently answered all my questions. Lebethe Malefo graciously translated ‘Used To Be’ into Setswana and sent me a recording of him speaking the song.

Thank you! to Alice.

Miela Ford, ocularist, was my source for details of that profession.

My rabbis were drawn from Martin Buber’s
Tales of the Hasidim
.

This is not the place for a bibliography but I must say how inspiriting I found Adam Nicolson’s
Men of Honour: Trafalgar and the Making of an English Hero
. And the reality of my visit to HMS
Victorý
in Portsmouth was augmented and recalled vividly to life by the beautiful HMS
Victory: Her Construction, Career and Restoration
by Alan McGowan.
Nelson’s Navy: The Ships, Men and Organisation 1793-1815
by Brian Lavery is a longtime resident of my maritime library and an invaluable aid in visualising the ships and the action of the period.

Dominic Power read my pages as I wrote them and reliably made useful comments.

My wife Gundula Hoban, as always, kept me up to date with fashion details and London in general.

R.H.

London 2007

Russell Hoban (1925-2011) was the author of many extraordinary novels including
Turtle Diary, Angelica Lost and Found and his masterpiece, Riddley Walker.
He also wrote some classic books for children including
The Mouse and his Child and the Frances
books. Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA, he lived in London from 1969 until his death.